


check hook

by deadlybride



Series: fic for climate crisis [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Episode: s11e06 Our Little World, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fight Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 11, non-traditional bdsm dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: When Amara gets away from them in Massachusetts Sam and Dean head back to the bunker. Dean's on edge.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for climate crisis [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173491
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72





	check hook

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for climate relief in Texas. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

Dean's quiet as they leave Fall River. It's not the good kind of quiet. Sam doesn't try to interject, from the passenger seat, but it's easy to tell—how he's gripping the steering wheel too hard, how he's not futzing around with the radio, how his jaw is clenched, all the time, so hard it looks like it hurts. When they both picked themselves up from the wreckage after Amara walked out of the asylum, they were bruised but not really hurt, and there were the demons Sam had cuffed to deal with. Sam exorcised them, since they didn't have time for a cure, and he didn't miss how Dean was restless in the doorway keeping lookout, his bootheel beating a tattoo on the flagstone and his hand white-knuckled around the demon knife. Like he wanted to use it and didn't have an acceptable target. Sam didn't say anything. Not in that place.

Midnight, by the time they got out of there, and they've been making good time on the empty highways but there's no way they'll make it to the bunker without stopping to sleep, no matter if Dean insists. Eight hours of breaking the speed limit gets them to Zanesville, on the wrong side of Columbus, and Dean isn't yawning yet but his face is practically grey. "Let's stop," Sam says, as the exits on I-70 start to come up. Food, accommodation. "C'mon. You're gonna drive off the road."

Dean's hands flex on the wheel. "When in my life," he says, "have I ever driven off the road." He signals, though. Morning traffic. People heading to regular jobs. It's going to be a pretty day, in Ohio. Blue skies and the air just the right amount of cool. The streets immediately off the highway are familiar. Waffle House, McDonald's. Red Roof Inn. Dean turns the other way and finds what's more their speed: less-trafficked, in bad need of a coat of paint. Sam smiles, when they pass a diner that appears to just be called THE DINER. So he likes it grubby. There are worse things than grubby.

The motel is called the Carnation Inn and it's very on-theme. Red doors, carpet faded enough that now it's pink. Red bedspreads with a flower pattern, and a plastic vase on the table with a single plastic carnation sticking out of it, dusty. "State flower," Sam says, and Dean isn't paying attention and says, "What?" but not like he means it.

He's unpacking his bag, on the other bed. Short, sharp movements, jerky like he's angry. He gets the zip stuck on his duffle and almost snarls at it, and Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Dean was in that room with Amara and Crowley for long minutes before Sam broke down the door, and when he finally managed Crowley was gone and Amara was—just a teenager, pretty in a teenaged way, and it took one second before she tossed Sam halfway down the hall. The kind of power angels have but worse. She threw Dean, too, but when Sam busted in they were just standing there, close, and there wasn't a hint that Dean had even been hurt. What happened, Sam wonders, and knows not to ask. Not yet.

"Shower?" Sam says, instead, and Dean shakes his head, still fighting with the zipper. Sam goes, instead. Decent water pressure and tepid temperature—there's been worse. He washes fast, gets off the gritty dust of the asylum. Fast, drying off, and he pulls on his boxer-briefs and that's all, and steps back out into the morning-lit room to feel the air cool on his damp skin, his hair still coursing wet trails down his back, and Dean sitting there with his shotgun parted out on the table, cleaning it. Even that aggressive, somehow. His eyebrows drawn down to a flat line and his knee jogging restlessly under the table.

"Don't want to sleep?" Sam says, as though it's actually a question.

"Can't," Dean says, short. Duh. He glances at Sam and then looks back at him for real, eyes narrowed. "Wow. Exhibitionist much?"

"Says the kettle," Sam says, and Dean snorts. Sam takes a deep breath, then, and moves the beds. First the one, pushed up against the far wall, and then the nightstand in the middle dragged up against it as far as it'll go. Then the other, up as close to the table as he can get without boxing in Dean. It makes a big space, in the middle of the room, and reveals a lot of dusty carpet. "The housekeeper isn't very thorough," he says, dusting off his hands.

Dean's watching him, face tight. "Yeah, my kingdom for a vacuum," he says. "What the hell, Sam."

"Get up," Sam says. Dean's eyebrows raise and Sam beckons, sort of impatient in the way that he knows Dean hates. "Come on."

Dean gets up. He's still fully clothed—boots still on, and jacket too. Still smelling like a day of research and then fighting and then driving, Sam bets, and isn't surprised that that thought courses warm down into the pit of his belly. That's the Dean he knows best. "Gonna teach me how to dance?" Dean says, sarcastic, and Sam smiles at him and says, "Something like that," and when Dean's close enough Sam reaches out and shoves him so he staggers back a half step.

There's surprise but not that much surprise. "Whoa," Dean says, holding up a hand. He's on his back foot but it's braced. Sam can tell. "Didn't sign up for this kind of dance."

"We're not dancing," Sam says, and Dean's eyes narrow. Sam pushes him again, not much force behind it, and Dean barely rocks. "Come on," Sam says again, goading now. "You've been spoiling for a fight all day. I wouldn't let you fight the demons and now you're all pissed off. You think I can't tell?"

"I'm not—pissed off," Dean says, sounding in fact very pissed off, and it's not like Sam doesn't know that, too. Like he doesn't know Dean to the last atom. Sam raises his eyebrows, lifts his chin. Backs up a step, braces, so he's ready for the second Dean locks in and lunges and throws a damn haymaker that Sam dodges, easily, and then they're on.

Not the first time Sam's had to do this. Won't be the last, he bets. He gets Dean's in the ribs with a quick jab and Dean lets out an _oof_ and then shoves him off, and fires off a surprise left-hander that Sam barely sees coming and only dodges enough that it grazes his jaw instead of snapping his head back. They don't fight often because ever since they were kids they were too good at it—knowing each other's tells, knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses. Too easy to compensate and exploit—like there, when Dean's so focused on covering his left side that he forgets to cover his right, and Sam gets him again with a shot to the gut—and ow, fuck, here, where Sam's too busy gloating about getting a hit in that he forgets Dean's waiting and takes a punch to the chest that sinks a stinging hurt all the way down to the bone. They pull their punches but not by much and they're both going to have bruises after this. That's the point. It's half the point.

It happens when Dean's angry but it's never just that he's angry. When he's shaken and trying to hide it. When he's got a poison building up inside him that he can't seem to drain. Sam blocks a quick jab and swipes away Dean's arm with another, and he leaves an opening—an obvious opening but not so obvious Dean will think he's sandbagging—and Dean gets him in the stomach, hard enough that Sam folds up over his fist, the air driven out of him. A hand grips his shoulder, slides up into his wet hair. He pants and then shoves and Dean staggers back, and Sam reaches out and grips under his knee and yanks so hard that he falls and then—a tackle—getting Dean on his back, and a rabbit-punch to Sam's ribs hard enough that something creaks—and then Dean's hand on his throat. He takes a deep breath and Dean squeezes, his fingers tightening in the vein so that Sam's head swims, and with that leverage he flips Sam onto his back, swarming over, Sam's head knocking back against the carpet and making his ears ring. He pushes up and scrapes but his nails just catch Dean's jacket, shirt. Dean's hand still on his throat. He gets his heels into the carpet and shoves but Dean's got a leg over his and maybe Sam still outweighs him by a few pounds but it doesn't matter when Dean's boot's wrapped over his shin and his weight's pressing down, grinding Sam down. He gasps for air and Dean lets up for just a second, looking at his face, and Sam says thin, "Pussying out?" It's not like him but it doesn't matter when Dean's in the middle of a fight. When it's this kind of fight. Dean's jaw clenches and he grips Sam's throat again, eyes dark and fixed on Sam's eyes, and Sam drags his heels up and drags in air through his nose and lets Dean see him lose. It's important, that he loses.

Dean's hand on him is hot. Sweat between his palm and Sam's throat. Sam goes lax against the dusty carpet except for his hands, gripping as much as they can against the pink-faded pile, and Dean's face is—distant. Not quite his brother except for how, Sam knows, this is a part of him. A part he doesn't let out except when Sam lets him. Sam pulls in a deep thin breath through his half-trapped throat and says, deliberate, "Do it." A dare. Dean's hand clenches—another dizzy wave—Sam should've eaten before they started this—but then he sits up, a little higher, and the backhand when it comes is sharp, brutal, snaps Sam's head to the side against the carpet and stings so badly he wonders if something split. He licks his lip and doesn't taste blood. Dean hits him again, crack of his knuckles against Sam's cheek, and Sam squeezes his eyes closed and digs his nails into the carpet and takes it, lets Dean see how it hurts. Inside his cheek there's a taste of iron—his skin tearing inside, against his teeth. His dick's already thick, in his briefs, and maybe Dean can feel that too because he shifts his weight, pushes forward with his knees in the carpet, grips Sam's jaw instead and pulls him back up to where Dean can look at him. Hard press of thumb against his jaw, the soft skin under it. Sam doesn't open his eyes but lets his mouth part—knows it must be shining from how he can feel his too-quick wet breath over the stinging skin, hopes the blood isn't showing—and then—another shift, Dean's weight lifting, and then—the sound of his belt-buckle. The buzz of the zip.

Sam looks, then. Dean's face, tight as a mask, and below: pulling his shirts up out of the way so Sam can see the slight-soft stretch of his belly, the trimmed neatness of his pubic hair. His hand, broad tan knuckles and the freckles on the back, and how he's fisting his dick. Half-hard, pushed up over the elastic line of his boxers. His balls heavy, sitting there. He jerks himself root to tip, the skin scrunching and pulling where he's not yet all the way there, and then sits up higher, pushes forward. Sam doesn't help. Dean gets his knees around Sam's shoulders and has to grip Sam's hair, yank him upright, and force his thumb in between Sam's teeth—dips deeper, making him gag at the unexpected shock of pressure—and then there's his dick, pushing dry between Sam's lips, and Sam takes a deep breath and gets—yes, that—that all-day smell, Dean's sweat and the musk of him, his salt, that body-truth of him that Sam's known for—fuck—half his life—and then Dean tips forward and gets Sam by the sides of his skull and crushes all the way in, as deep as he can go with Sam's nose ground up close against his skin, and Sam gags again but it doesn't matter because the point is that Sam's gagging—the point is that Dean's _won_ —and he swallows helplessly and looks up at Dean and Dean looks back at him with his face this remote, strange, unhappy thing—and then he pulls back, enough that Sam can gasp air in the slack space around where Dean's cock breaks his mouth open—and then Dean shoves back in, and Sam grips the carpet desperately and hangs on, for as long as it takes.

The first time—it was a real fight, the first time. Not Sam faking it to make it happen. He'd had his soul back but Dean was a wreck, just a complete wreck, and he hadn't known, then, that Dean had killed Amy—certainly hadn't had time to understand why Dean had—and they'd gotten into a bareknuckle scrap over a stupid, stupid argument. That really should've been the first sign but Sam didn't get it, quite yet. That Dean would fight him even though Dean was clearly feeling so guilty and awful that Sam would've half-expected him to just lay down and die. Sam lost the fight but only because of Dean's goddamn boot that had tripped him up on the motel floor—and when he was on his back and Dean was crouched over his chest he only then realized that Dean was hard as a rock, pressed up against his stomach, and he reached down and got his hand around it, gripping, and Dean looked at him white-faced and knocked his hand away and gripped Sam's hair, instead, and Sam got then that—this was something he could do. This was something that wouldn't hurt him, even if Dean—in some deep way he couldn't admit to himself out loud—wanted something that'd hurt.

Dean presses in deep, knocking his throat, and Sam coughs and swallows and groans, his hips lifting stupidly. On a normal day he's perfectly happy to suck Dean's dick dry but this position—fuck, he hates it. Of course that's the point. Dean's dick is thick, thick enough that Sam's jaw aches already, but it's not all that long. In this position it feels incredibly fucking long. He's got a rhythm, now, riding Sam's face, a smooth pumping roll that jolts the head against Sam's gag reflex every time, and with the grip he's got on Sam's head Sam can't move around, can't guide him or accommodate to make it easier. He feels like the fleshlight Dean gave him as a gag gift for his birthday, last year. A tunnel to be fucked. He flattens his tongue out and tries to swallow when he can. Dean's breathing so hard, above him, working, and Sam's starting to taste him—hard all the way and starting to leak, that bitter tang thick in Sam's throat that's crowding out the coppery thin blood—and Sam makes an unthinking sound and then, finally, unclenches his hands from the carpet—his fingers aching—and drags them up Dean's thighs, up to his hips. Squeezes. Dean moans and changes his grip, lifting Sam's head up higher—Sam craning upward, helping—and, oh, that's better, that's smoother, Dean pumping thick and heavy over his tongue—his balls slapping Sam's chin, he's jerking into him so hard—and Sam closes his lips finally, helps for real, and Dean curls over his head and says thin and wounded "Jesus, jesus, Sammy—" and Sam slicks his tongue with hard pressure over the underside and sucks hard and Dean comes right down his throat, pulsing thick, the warm thickness of him throbbing inside. He pushes in deep again, losing his balance so he has to brace one hand on the carpet above Sam's head, and Sam breathes through the gag and swallows, taking everything Dean has to give. Letting it drain out of him, like something awful being lanced.

Dean's fingers are in his hair, supporting the weight of his head. Lax, now. Sam pulls up, off, his lips numb, and Dean's dick is nasty—slick, gooey from Sam's throat. Sam breathes deep and kisses the side of it, thick and twitching. Slides his lips down, letting it slime up his cheek, and kisses Dean's nuts, and licks them in a broad flat swipe. Dean shudders, above him, and then cards his fingers loose through Sam's hair.

"Get off," Sam says. His throat's sore and his voice is wrecked. Dean swings his knee over and looks like his thighs can barely hold him. His eyes distant. Sam sits up, ignores the dizzy sway, and gets his fist into Dean's jacket. Yanks him forward and pushes and Dean goes down onto the carpet. He catches himself briefly with his palms and then sinks down, while Sam yanks his jeans down and gets his leg over, and pulls his own aching dick out of his boxers. He's got no spit left after Dean used him that hard and so he reaches forward and shoves his fingers into Dean's mouth. "Spit," Sam says, and Dean's cheeks work until it's wet enough for what Sam needs, and with that he slicks his dick as much as he can and then aims it up against Dean's asshole and shoves in, not slow, not asking.

Dean surges against the carpet. His fingers grip the nap the same way Sam's had. Sam grips Dean's hip with one hand, keeping him tipped up for Sam to fuck him, and braces the other over the back of Dean's hand. He laces their fingers together, their knuckles pressing tight, and he doesn't make it easy for Dean but it's not a punishment either. It won't take long. Dean's shockingly hot, tight because they haven't had time for this for a few weeks, not since that night they re-christened the bunker in celebration of finally being safe and together and home. Sam leans down, shoves hard, his head hanging close to where Dean's gasping into the carpet, the air pushed out of him on every thrust. When they get home again they'll take it slow. They'll shower together and Sam will let Dean try out his terrible come-ons and he'll finger Dean so soft Dean'll be begging, trying to kick Sam's shoulder, laughing desperate and high when Sam finally pushes in—but that's for later. For now Sam uses him, the same way Dean used him, and when he comes it's not even good—just a relief, dumping inside something warm, an obligation dealt with so that his mind will be clear enough for what comes next.

He pushes his hips hard up against Dean's ass, flexing inside. The tension drains out of his back and his hips feel loose. Dean's breathing has gone slow, his lips parted against the carpet, and Sam leans down and presses his forehead against the stretch of bone just above Dean's ear, breathing with him. He squeezes Dean's fingers and it kind of hurts. He shifts his hips, lets his dick slide out of the warm home he made for it, and slides it up between Dean's thighs instead, keeping them close, connected. He wishes Dean weren't wearing so many clothes. Maybe he'll convince him to strip after this, to take a shower. To crawl into bed with Sam and sleep for a few hours, ignoring the day until they have to get back into the car and drive again.

After a while Dean's head turns, a little. Sam ducks down and kisses his cheekbone and Dean takes a long, deep breath, his back rising under Sam's chest. "Okay?" Sam says, very quiet in the little cave of dusty darkness they've made against the red-stained morning, and Dean's lips press together like he's not sure of the answer. Sam shifts, just enough that he can grip Dean's shoulder and urge him to turn over, and when Dean does Sam lays right back down on top of him, their bellies pressed together and Sam dragging his hand warm and hard over Dean's chest, to his throat, to the side of his head, held close. Dean's eyes are half-lidded, tired. Sam kisses him, very softly, and then again. Soft, careful presses of their mouths, just the faintest pressure and the wet inside of Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and after a minute Dean's fingers curl against Sam's side and he kisses back, just barely. Sam tips their foreheads together. "Okay?" he asks, again.

Dean's nails dig into Sam's bare skin, just enough so he can feel it. "I'll get back to you on that," he says, voice as rough as Sam's.

Sam huffs, his breath bursting hot against Dean's cheek. Rank, like dick. He needs to brush his teeth before they sleep. "Ready to get up?" he says, and Dean sighs, but says, "I think I'm gonna have carpet dust in my ass," and Sam rolls his eyes and lifts up, and pulls Dean up right along with him. Dean winces when he's sitting—maybe Sam was rougher than he meant to be—but that's not important. The physical stuff is never what's important. Sam tugs his boxers up so he's not freeballing at the world and then crouches, gets his hand around Dean's wrist, and they pull together, bracing against each other, so they get upright at the same time. Years of practice with that trick but Dean still sways, when they're upright, and Sam grips his shoulder to ground him.

Dean shakes his head. "I didn't—" he starts, and cuts himself off. Sam doesn't know what goes there but it doesn't really matter. He brushes his thumb against the bolt of Dean's jaw and Dean tips his head against it, tired, and then looks at Sam. Mouth all rueful. He brushes his fingers over Sam's cheek. "Got you good," he says, quiet.

Apologizing, like Sam didn't ask for it. Sam shakes his shoulder a little, chastising him for even having the thought. As though he could stop Dean feeling guilty. He reaches down and tugs Dean's jeans up, back over his ass, and then settles his hands there at the low of Dean's back, keeping him close. Dean just lets him, his weight still tipped in toward Sam. Loose as an unspooled rope.

"We'll get cleaned up," he says, matter of fact. "Sleep for a few hours. Order some food. Take a minute. Okay?"

Dean nods. His hair's soft against Sam's jaw. He settles his hands on Sam's waist and takes a deep breath but doesn't seem ready to move. At some point, Sam has to ask him about Amara, about what happened in that room. They'll have to talk about plans—what they can do about her, and what Sam's visions mean, and where to go from here. Sam will have to try to work out some way to say to Dean that it's not Dean's fault and try to make Dean believe it. That Sam doesn't blame him. Not for a single moment of what's happening now, or what came before, the last time Dean threw a punch at him and Sam bled willing, on the floor.

For now they stand in the middle of the room, in the dusty red light. Sam wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders and breathes with him, close. His throat's sore, and the inside of his cheek stings, and he really is going to have a killer bruise on his ribs where Dean got him with that punch—but for the first time in weeks he's not tense, or scared, or worried. Dean's thumb drags over his waist, careful, and Sam puts his lips against his hair. "Let's take that shower," he says, and Dean says, "Okay, Sammy," so they do.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/644872867775905792/in-support-of-texas-relief-shaelynn88-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


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